


House on Fire

by barcabrony (freolia)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Bonding, FC Barcelona, Friendship, Gen, I'm Confused Too, Injury, Prompt fill (sort of), Real Madrid CF, SerLeo if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6466318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freolia/pseuds/barcabrony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sergio has a nasty case of wrong-place-wrong-time, and it strikes again on a warm afternoon in Barcelona.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House on Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/9768.html?thread=4496168#/t4496168) on the kinkmeme.
> 
> I am so, _very_ confused with this, and I haven't had enough sleep for this to seem like a bad idea yet.

Sergio adjusted his sunglasses as he cautiously peered over his shoulder. He was ninety-nine per cent sure that he was inconspicuous, sitting at a small café in the shadow of La Sagrada Família, the pride of Barcelona. A half-empty coffee cup sat on the metal table in front of him, the smell of espresso still hovering in his nostrils. 

He flinched when a loud shout echoed across the street, quickly turning to see a group of teenagers starting a kick-about on the pavement. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. His feet twitched to join in, and he had to resist. Sergio was deep in enemy territory here, and things could get dangerous if they saw his identity. You could never tell the ultra-fans from the sane ones…

He settled back into his seat, wincing slightly as he put a bit too much weight on his leg; the main reason he was sat in the rival city and not getting ready for a match. He’d strained his calf muscle badly a couple of days ago in training (overworked, the physio had told him with a grim look); not badly enough to be bed-ridden, but enough to keep him out of the match. The only reason he was in Barcelona now, was Fernando; Atlético were playing Espanyol today, and he’d promised to meet him afterwards for a drink. At least Barcelona weren’t playing today as well, or the streets would be filling with blaugrana. 

In his boredom, he’d decided to go out on an adventure while Fer was playing (there was no way he could get tickets to see his friend at such short notice). And it was beginning to look like a bad idea. Just being in the city was stressful. The buildings were too similar to Madrid but the pulse in the streets was all wrong, almost spitting words of rebellion and defiance, and there weren’t many cities in Spain where he felt like such a foreigner in his own country.

Madrid, his home, was so much more; relaxed but intense – everything working in harmony for a brighter future. Everything in Madrid was geared to moving forwards, even the football teams, while Barcelona was designed to drag its heels.

With another nervous glance, he drained his cup and stood up to pay. Maybe he should find a church or library to take shelter in for a few hours. He settled the bill and left, glancing up at the grey clouds as he did and in doing so, failed to notice the door step.

Sergio tripped spectacularly (even by his own standards), and he didn’t have to fake the pain that shot through his lower leg as he fell at an awkward angle. The sunglasses clattered to the ground away from him with a smash and he cursed as the lens shattered.

Feeling very self-conscious, he glanced up and immediately regretted it. Every other person in the vicinity is staring at him, and he was suddenly very aware of his identifying wrist tattoo which was showing where his sleeve pulled up, of the tiny Real Madrid pin he hadn’t been able to resist sticking in his collar earlier, and the lack of anything concealing his face. The breeze danced across his face, and he briefly thought he may as well be naked for the looks of disgust he was beginning to attract.

Trying to preserve as much dignity as he could, he pulled himself to his feet, steadying himself for a fraction of a second on the door of the café as his leg threatened to give way, spots dancing at the edge of his vision. He was very aware of the eyes on him as he walked away from the building, trying not to limp and biting his lip so as not to hiss in pain. He didn’t know where he’s going, only that he had to get away from their accusing eyes and hatred – maybe a cab?

“Puta! Where do you think you’re going?” An angry male voice yelled behind him, and he took a deep breath to control the unwanted spike of fear. Sergio Ramos doesn’t _do_ fear. He kept walking. Coming here was a really bad idea…

“Oi! I’m talking to you!” A hand grabbed his arm and swung him round, and now he was angry, not scared. What the fuck did he do to any of these people?

“Wha- Fuck!” Only his reflexes saved him as the man – who he could see close up now, see the dark circles under his eyes and rage stabbed into his face – swung a knife at his chest. Moving backwards, he threw the man off balance and saved his own life, but the blade still caught his forearm. There was a flash of red on the silver, and now maybe he would admit that he was scared. He ignored the pain in his arm and leg as he was forced to move backwards again, more prepared to avoid the second swing.

The crowd finally clued into what was happening, and they surged forward to restrain his attacker (he really hoped), but they were too far away… He heard a call from the road behind him, a car door opening.

“Sergio! Get in the car!”

It wasn’t a voice he immediately recognised but it was familiar, and he wasn’t going to argue. He sprinted away from his attacker, adrenaline allowing him to momentarily block out the pain from his muscle injury, and threw himself through the open door of an unfamiliar sports car, slamming the door shut behind him. The driver put his foot down on the accelerator, and the cloudy street quickly vanished, along with his attacker and the hostile crowd.

Sergio closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His heart rate gradually slowed, reminding him of the blood still seeping from the cut on his arm and the throbbing down his leg. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He was never coming to this stupid city again. 

The person sitting next to him seemed to agree. “What the fuck were you doing? You could have been killed.” 

He finally looked at him and restrained a hysterical urge to laugh, because of all the people he’d expect to rescue him from the very public streets of Barcelona, he did not think it would be little, introverted Lionel Messi.

Sergio’s silence must have worried him, because he glanced sideways, taking his eyes off the road for less than a second. He cursed, and pulled over. Sergio looked down numbly. Well, that wasn’t good. The cut was deeper than he’d thought it was, blood dripping down onto his trousers. He watched it bleed for a moment, not quite sure what he’s supposed to do with that, entranced by the vibrant red – Spanish red, is all he could think, in a voice similar to his mother’s. Bleeding for Spain. Messi was a step ahead though. There was a ripping sound, and Sergio looked up confused to see him tear off a strip from his t-shirt. Messi grabbed his injured arm and pulled it towards him, and he didn’t have the strength or presence of mind to stop him. 

Pain cut through the haze a moment later as the fabric strip was bound tightly around his arm, and the Argentine tied it with a practised hand. 

“I’m taking you to the hospital, I can’t believe you’d be that stupid…” Messi muttered under his breath, or at least Sergio thought he did. There was a bleary fog beginning to shadow over everything, and quite a strong urge to throw up. Which he did a moment later. To be fair, he did aim away from Messi. Conscious Sergio wouldn’t have done that.

Messi didn’t say anything, just wrinkled his nose and continuously glanced over at him. It took him a couple of minutes to realise that the man was worried he would pass out, and the urge to laugh is back with a vengeance; why the fuck was _Lionel Messi_ worried about Sergio Ramos? He was fine; he was always fine. Sergio was a _survivor_ , he’d lived out a hundred battles with scars all over his torso to prove it.

He contemplated his use of the third person for a bit until he felt the need to close his eyes. He was so tired all of a sudden… The foggy haze slipped away and was replaced with a darkness at the edge of his vision, a weakness in his eyelids. 

“Fuck! Sergio, keep your eyes open, are you listening? You stupid dick, don’t you dare pass out on me right now, this is the least you owe me.” He jerked his eyes open as the angry tirade started up; he would never have taken Messi as a swearer. Maybe they did have a bit in common…

He tried to follow the instruction, and focused on the buildings flash by outside the car. It vaguely amused him that goody two shoes Lionel Messi was breaking the speed limit, until the nausea returned. He retched again, in the seat-well, and somewhere in the back of his mind he felt remorse. This was a nice car, but the pain in his arm was starting to spread, and he felt like his leg might fall off, and _why can’t he fucking focus on just one thing?_ He just really wanted to go to sleep. Why couldn’t he go to sleep? Messi was such a dick. Iker would let him sleep, and thinking of his captain suddenly filled him with longing. 

“Where’s Iker?” He mumbled groggily, his mouth not quite responding. Iker would look after him, he always did; they looked after each other. (Even if Sergio had failed when it mattered.)

He got a strange glance from Messi, and no response. Was… something wrong with Iker? A muddled panic kicked off in his brain. He had to know Iker was alright.

“Where is he?” He managed more clearly this time, forcing his lips and tongue to cooperate. Messi hept his eyes on the road.

“Iker left for Porto last year, Sergio.” He gently reminded him, “Don’t you remember?”

Oh. Now he remembered. A sad longing for his best friend returned from somewhere he’d shut it away and it all seemed so unfair again. He hadn’t cried then, and he wasn’t going to cry now, but he really wanted him back. As the car stopped and Messi got out, his thoughts died, leaving only pain, shooting up and down his arm and his leg, through his nerves and to his brain. 

Some people appeared at the door with a stretcher (or is he imagining them?). Sergio just stared at them in confusion. Who was the stretcher for? They should take it to them, not just stand there, looking at him so gormlessly. 

One voice cut through the haze, thickly accented Spanish. “Sergio, these people need you to get on the stretcher. Can you manage that?”

And he tried to focus on that voice, that one voice and instruction. He fumbled at the door handle and somehow managed to get it open but when he tried to step out of the car, his legs buckled beneath him, and he fell forward. He felt hands catch him before his vision finally goes black. I’m good at falling, is all he managed to think as consciousness faded away.

*

He wakes up gradually, a steady, healthy beeping the first thing to register in his mind. He slowly lets his eyes drift open and recognises a hospital room. He feels pleasantly warm and numb, and he just enjoys this for a moment, lying on a warm bed with no sensation. 

“About time, you lazy bastard.” He blinks and turns his head slightly. Messi is sat next to his bed, a book balanced on his knees and a tired smile on his face, and this is just confusing. He remembers the other man being there before… but why is he _still_ here?

His eyebrows ask the question for him, and Messi suddenly looks awkward. “I couldn’t just leave you here. I don’t have the number to contact anyone else.”

Sergio finds that strangely disappointing; he’s here from some misplaced sense of duty. Why does he even care why he’s still here?

“But you didn’t answer my question. What the _hell_ were you doing in Barcelona, Sergio? That guy could have killed you.” There’s a mirrored look of confusion on Messi’s face, combined with stress. (Maybe he should be calling him Lionel? They seem to be on first name terms.)

Sergio struggles to remember for a moment. He was at a café… but… 

“Fer was playing at Espanyol. We were going to meet up after…” His mind still isn’t sharp enough. “Do you have my phone?” He realises suddenly that he hasn’t texted Fer, he won’t know where he is…

Lionel digs in his jacket pocket for a moment. He doesn’t ask what for, even though he seems to want to. Sergio doesn’t say anything other than a grunted ‘thanks’, and unlocks his phone screen. The light blinds him for a moment, and when he sees again, the icons are drifting around the glass.

Lionel makes a motion, and he passes it back. “What did you want to do?” He asks quietly, tapping his thumb on the screen to an unheard rhythm.

“Text Fer,” he groans, staring back at the ceiling as somebody bangs a drum behind his eyes.

There’s a tapping sound, and Lionel hums a moment later, his voice low and soothing on Sergio's tired brain. 

“He’ll know you’re here when he checks his phone. Do you want me to text anyone else?”

Sergio thinks quickly. Iker – too far away. He’d only stress. Cris – probably training, and he was in Madrid anyway. So was everyone else. Damn.

“No, there’s no one else who can get here.” He groans. “Why are you being so nice anyway?” The smaller man had no reason to like him and every reason to hate him. They were on rival teams, basically polar opposites in every way, and Sergio didn’t exactly go easy when tackling him.

He shrugged. “You needed help. I’m not going to leave somebody alone in a knife fight.” His tone made it sound so obvious, like it didn't matter that they were supposed to be enemies.

“Yeah, but- ” Sergio didn’t know what else to say. He probably would have done the same, but he certainly wouldn’t still be here. But he doesn’t know how to phrase that without sounding ungrateful and his mind is beginning to clear, reminding him that somebody had sliced his right arm open. He tries to lift his arm but it's like trying to lift a block of steel. There's a thick bandage on the limb, all the way from the elbow to the wrist.

“Crap. How am I supposed to use my hand?” He grumbles.

“Why? Busy evening planned?” Lionel asks with a sly grin, and Sergio stares at him in shock for a minute. They both burst out laughing at the same time. Maybe Messi isn’t that bad after all.

A doctor pushes the door open at that moment, alerted by the sound of laughter. 

“Mr Ramos, welcome back. How are you feeling?” The doctor asks with a smile. 

“Vaguely painful? My arm hurts like a bitch.” He grumbles, and the doctor nods.

“That’s to be expected. The knife went quite deep. It nicked an artery. If you hadn’t had your friend here,” he motions to Lionel, “you could have easily bled out. He staunched the bleeding, and volunteered for an emergency transfusion when we got you in. You’re lucky you have the same blood type.” 

Sergio stared at Lionel in surprise, who was busy examining the floor. The forward had saved his life _three_ times today then… 

“We’d like to keep you in for a couple more hours, but we shouldn’t have to keep you in overnight. It’s a good thing you’re in such good shape; somebody less fit could have died. We noticed you also seem to have a muscular problem in your leg?”

Sergio nods in response, still overwhelmed by the man in the chair next to him. Maybe the humility wasn’t just an act like they all assumed it was.

“Yeah, it’s why I can’t play this evening.” He grimaces, and the doctor nods again in sympathy.

“I’m afraid it’s been aggravated by the movement. You might find it too painful to walk. We can provide you with crutches, but I wouldn’t recommend flying back to Madrid this evening. Do you have somewhere else you can stay the night?”

Sergio stares for a moment, but Lionel responds first, “He can stay with me.” He turns to Sergio. “If he can deal with the culé vibes.” A small, challenging smirk spread across his face, and Sergio almost smiles back. This could work, even if he has no idea why this is happening.

The doctor checks a couple of pieces of equipment before leaving again, and Sergio settles his head back on the pillow, still trying to get his head around all of it. He’s in hospital, after being attacked by a rabid culé. He currently has Lionel Messi’s blood flowing through his veins, and he’s going to go home with him later as well. The fuck? If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was in some weird rom-com. The circumstances sounded like the messed-up fantasy of a teenage girl.

Did he get sucked into a wormhole to a parallel dimension at some point? Maybe he’s switched places with a parallel universe Sergio who’s friends with Lionel, a Messi who’s actually quite funny and cool to be around. 

He frowns suddenly. “What were you doing, driving the streets? You know why I was there. I thought you didn’t leave your house, or something?”

Lionel looks at him for a moment, before ducking his head. “I don’t usually. I didn’t want to be at home.” He mutters to his legs.

Sergio cocks his head to the side, wanting to know more. He knows basically nothing about Lionel. The other man picks up on the silent invitation and keeps talking. 

“Geri doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up.” He spits, and Sergio knows that that is all he’ll get for now.

“Piqué does knows how to get under people’s skin.” He idly comments, thinking of all the barbs he’s fallen for himself. Lionel hums quietly in assent, and his fingers begin tapping again, a vaguely familiar rhythm on the hardback book.

There’s an easy silence between them, and that’s confusing as well; why the fuck is it easy for them to fall into a pattern? They’ve never had a conversation before today.

“How did you learn how to bind wounds like that, Lionel?” He asks casually, unable to let the room stay quiet, and Lionel looks at him in amusement. “What?” He asks defensively.

“You can’t stay quiet, can you?” He laughs in disbelief, before a serious look crosses his face. “I got quite good at looking after myself when I was younger. I always felt bad that my dad gave up everything to come with me, so I didn’t want to bother him more than I had to. That didn’t include with injections or cleaning up wounds.” A grim smile crosses his face, and Sergio wonders at the man.

He’s not outgoing or loud, not likely to pick a fight or stick around if one broke out, but there’s a different type of bravery in Lionel Messi, an indomitable inner strength. That’s something Sergio can respect; the bravery to keep picking yourself up, to not get scared when you kept running at the same obstacles over and over again, to drag yourself through what needed to be done even when it hurt.

Maybe they have quite a lot in common after all. It’s a very strange thought, but not nearly as unpalatable as Sergio would have thought it would be. 

Lionel’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Sergio?” He asks, and Sergio responds, “yeah?”

“Call me Leo.” There’s half a smile in his voice, and Sergio can feel a warmth in his chest. He loves being close to people.

“Can I call you Lee-lee?”

“Fuck off.”

They both stare at the TV in the corner, but there’s a massive grin on Sergio’s face, and he knows Leo has one too. This could _definitely_ work.

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is the strangest thing I've ever written (just in terms of the premise, it's basically crack just on the merits of the two players). Leave a comment if you want more of this story, because otherwise I'm going to let it lie :)


End file.
